Too Late
by SJBHasADayPass
Summary: Six months after the Fall, John is finding it difficult without Sherlock, and Sherlock is finding it just as painful. Warning: Swearing, mention of suicide and character death. AU.
1. John

**A.N. Warning: swearing, character death, mention of suicide and boat loads of angst. I'm sorry.**

**This is part one of this mini story – from the POV of John and the next one is from Sherlock's**

Too Late – John

My fingers slowly graze along the barrel of the gun. In two clicks it's loaded and the safety is switched off, it lies on the desk in front of me, screaming at me 'Pick me up, raise me and pull my trigger'. The temptation is so strong; the fingers on my free hand itch to succumb to the demands of this tantalizing, manipulative devil.

It just looks so ... Easy.

Mrs. Hudson went out for the night with a few of her friends from down the road, it took a lot of persuading on my behalf to get her to go. I told her I was fine, I told her I can survive one night without her kind hearted fussing. But ... I suppose that it's in her nature – be the Mother Hen. I wonder if she knows that I'm lying through my teeth; of course I'm not okay. Sherlock's dead and everyone believed that he was a lair, a traitor, a fucking fake. If I hadn't been so gullible, if I didn't leave him, I would've stopped him from falling...

I was too late. I didn't save him.

The papers were having a field day when Sherlock fell off the rooftop. They were all hammering at my door, lurking around like pesky vultures on the street waiting for me to give them a quote, they bombarded my emails with "we-should-meet-up" and "I'm-sorry-for-your-loss-but-could-we-get-an-exclusive". It's sick. My best friend is dead and they fucking want an exclusive so that they can buy a bloody house in the Maldives. No-fucking-thank you. Six months on and they still want that interview, the majority of them gave up and left but for the some that still remain loiter around on the street sometimes. I started to notice their little routine, their little plan; conveniently wait for me to leave the flat, and coincidently bump into me when I went to work, or go out to get the shopping. But the only thing that they'll get from me is a 'piss off' and a 'shove it up your arse' (and many other things, but I'll leave that out).

Obviously, they didn't make life any easier for me, but neither did the people around me that I called my friends and family. Sarah gave me an absence of grievance and told me to take as much time off as I needed – which means "don't come until I say you can" I'm not stupid. But it only means that I've got a queer, quiet, empty flat to greet me every day and a skull on the mantelpiece to keep me company for main part of the day. Mrs. Hudson babies me, endlessly, though I can see that it's a kind gesture but I do still want to be able to actually do something for myself. Molly comes by every other day or so, being her overly cheerful self and trying her very hardest to make me feel better – which does include her really bad jokes. She teams up with Mrs. Hudson sometimes and they out rightly refuse for me to do anything myself, and they act cautiously, like I'm going break like a china plate. Greg comes round occasionally to check that I'm fine too, sometimes with a 6-pack of lager or beer. Hurray, drinking problems and haunting memories away, my favourite (!) Like that has done anyone any good in the past. Harriet calls me up a few times a week, friendly chatter but that is about it. They don't last any longer than five minutes. It's like I can't live my own life anymore without consulting anybody about it first. I think that the only person that has done me any good in this last half year is Mycroft, and all that he has done is left me at peace. No more abductions, no more unexpected visits and certainly no more childish power play games. Come to think of it ... He has done jack-shit. Nothing. Nada.

So, overall, I'm not happy. I don't tell anybody that I'm not, I guess I'm not that sort of person that openly talks about their feelings. I'm very British in that way.

Life has turned positively sour for me, it mocks me. It throws lemons and heaps of horse shit at me every single bloody day, just because it can.

No matter what anybody says, Sherlock made my life better. He gave me the chance to live again when I thought it was over, we had a few laughs, run around London chasing cars, and we banged up criminals behind bars at least twice a week. If someone asked me, I would openly admit to them that life heart-pounding, adrenaline rushed, exciting, fun, better with him. Not a day goes by when I don't think about it, and miss it. Miss him.

Everywhere and anywhere I go I am constantly reminded of him. The small Chinese take-away after we solved the murderous cabbie driver case. The end of Sawyer Street in Belgravia where Sherlock literally asked me to punch him in the face. Bart's... I could name a thousand places in London and I could tell you how each and every single one of those places reminds me of him.

It's safe to say that the flat hasn't changed a bit; there's still the general clutter of stray papers, books and files lying around, the horrific mess of Sherlock's working desk/the kitchen table, his unfinished experiments and, of course, the spray painted smiley face (I think it's become a part of the Baker Street Family). Mrs. Hudson does her best to tidy it up but it's becoming an extremely hard task to accomplish – like as soon as you tidy one part of the flat, you uncover something else that has to be cleaned.

"_It's like it doesn't want to be cleaned_." She always complains.

The flat reeks of him as well; the subtle scent of expensive aftershave, the faint smell of chemicals from old experiments and cigarettes. I suppose the latter was my fault – on days when at my lowest, I light up one or two of his favourite brand. I just let the flame burn and eat away at the tar and chemicals while it fills the room with that smell. They have become like scented candles to me.

Sitting in the semi-darkness, hearing the sirens blare off in the distance and leek through the windowsills, with a fully loaded hand gun in arms reach does get you thinking about what you have done, what you're leaving behind, who you are going to hurt and what possible future you could've had (I never saw one without him in it).

I shake my head before picking up a scrap piece of paper, a pen, and write a small note in an untidy scrawl; _I just wanted to say 'hello'._

I throw the pen down somewhere and grasp the pistol with a firm grip, raise it, and push it hard against my left temple. The quicker that this is over, the better – which is why I didn't opt for pills and alcohol, the thought of me dying on my own vomit sounded unappealing to me. My eyes flutter shut, a lone tear trails down my face like a small running river. I can taste a metallic taste in my mouth – blood. I must've bitten the inside of my cheek too hard.

_John, don't make this any harder. _I mentally tell myself. _Relax._

Well... Here goes nothing.

_I still believe in Sherlock Holmes._

**A.N. Hey I hope that wasn't too bad. There will be another chapter after this, like I said previously, from Sherlock's POV after this point.**

**Any grammar, punctuation, continuity mistakes let me know. And constructive criticism is welcome. **


	2. Sherlock

**Disclaimer: I don't think I would be writing angsty fanfiction if I owned Sherlock.**

Too Late – Sherlock

_Incoming call: Mycroft Holmes_

Why is Mycroft calling? We both agreed that we would make the absolute minimal amount of contact, for one another's safety, so why is he calling me now? I pick up the phone, start pacing up and down the box sized room, click the "answer" button and bring it up to my ear.

"Mycroft, we agreed that..." I begin, agitatedly.

"Sherlock, shut up and listen," He rudely interrupts me. I immediately stop pacing and listen to him sadly sigh on the other end of the line, he's probably pinching the bridge of his nose, or something similar. Something dreadful must've happened. My mind races with all sorts of possibilities and little theories with why my brother would act and sound this way. Is someone hurt? Are they okay? Who is it? "Sherlock... John was found dead with a bullet lodged in his left temple early this morning." He says in a sombre tone.

My whole body just freezes, my mind just goes blank within half a second, I just tune out to what is happen around me. I think Mycroft's still on the line, giving his condolences; I don't really pay that much attention. And neither do I notice the silent tears rolling down my cheeks until I click back to reality.

I wipe them away with my free hand; I choke back the rest of the sobs before I reply back: "He... H-he committed suicide?" My voice is quiet, gravely and hoarse.

"Sadly, yes." He mutters back softly. "Mrs. Hudson found him – she got worried that something happened to him when he didn't open the door when he knocked."

Mrs. Hudson? Mrs. Hudson found him dead? Oh my God... I don't want to imagine how she felt when she... There was always a kind of warm, friendly relationship between John and Mrs. Hudson that I never understood. But why? Why would he commit suicide? By his character, you wouldn't say he would be the one have thoughts about killing themselves. He was always been so brave, loving, caring, why would he do it?

"There's something else, Sherlock," Mycroft continued. "A note was found on the desk, written by John himself. Possible before he..." He cut himself off for a second. "You know."

He wrote a note? Does it say why he did it? How long was it? Did it mention anybody? Was he sorry? "What does it say?" I don't even care how desperate and pathetic I sound. My best friend is dead, and my landlady was the one who found him. The two people that I cared about more than anything, the people who I swore to that I would protect them, are either dead or emotional scarred.

"It said: 'I just wanted to say "hello"'." He recited.

I suddenly lose all of my balance, I clumsily stumble backward until my back smacks the exposed brick wall. I hit the back of my head hard, and slide down the wall, scraping my back in the process, until I'm just a heap on the floor. He's dead because of me. He wanted to see me. He died just so he can see me again. My stomach churns uncomfortably inside of me, I try my hardest not be sick as I could taste the bile at the back of my throat. I bring my knees up to my face and just let the tears fall down my face and the cries escape past my lips. I realise that Mycroft is still on the phone, and, with all the strength that I could muster up at that time, lob it to the other side of the room with an angry cry, I hear it smash and shatter against the wall.

I lied there for what felt like hours, curled up in a tight ball, just crying. My eyes sting from the amount of salty tears that I release, my throat had never felt so sour and neither has it sounded so ragged before.

The note was about me. I'm the cause of his death. I did it. I killed him.

"I killed him." I cry the best as I can, coughing and choking out more sobs and gasping for air.

John's dead. And it's all my fault.

Mycroft informed me that John's funeral would take place three days after John ... After John killed himself. He advised me to go, hide away in the corner of the church, at the back of cemetery yard. He said that it would be good for me to get some closure, but how can I go? It's not very common that you go to a funeral and the deceased's best friend has risen from the grave, like nothing has happened. Not only that, but I still have his death lingering over the top of me like some sort of sick, twisted plague. John's blood is on my hands. He wanted to say 'hello', he missed me – and God knows how much I desperately missed him.

I decided not to go, for the sake and sanity of those we were actually invited. I told Mycroft that he had to go in my place, he didn't receive an invite but he used the excuse that he wanted to pay his respects to John. He was, after all, a friend of John's, even though Mycroft treated him like a spy with a constant mission to make sure _I _was fine. As long as he doesn't act like an insensitive, arrogant arse then it should be fine.

Afterwards, he told me about the event. Many people attended, which doesn't surprise me. John had friends at the Yard, his old Rugby club, the army, Bart's, even people he only met once on a case, they would be idiots if they didn't want to attend his funeral. Mycroft also informed me that it was a closed casket, but there was a picture of John smiling, he told me that he looked years younger – a statement in which my brother is correct. John always did look younger when he smiled, and he sounded so careless when he laughed – properly, not sarcastically. Mycroft also stated that a man named William Murray (or Bill, as he's commonly known by others) gave the grievance speech, saying he was a good man, and he will never be forgotten. John mentioned Murray a couple of time, very briefly, only to tell me that he was the orderly that saved his life in Afghanistan.

Murray's wrong. John wasn't a good man; he was the best man that I have ever known.

I went to visit his grave a week after the funeral was held. It took a while for me to gather by bearings and make sure I didn't break down as soon as I even thought about visiting. I – unlike John – never suffered from nightmares or flashbacks, I hardly ever slept, therefore no nightmares. But after I was told of John's death, all that my nights consisted was memories of all the adventures and thrills we experienced together ... and all of the times that I let him down or hurt him. I would wake up at ungodly hours of the night, drenched in my own sweat that mixed with my tears, gasping for air. Not for one second did John ever leave my mind. For me to clear my conscience, I have to do this. I have to say sorry or say goodbye to him, I know not physically but talking to a grave where he's buried six feet below is my best shot. But not matter how preparation I did, nothing prepared me for the sight I was about to witness.

At first sight his grave looks peaceful and quaint; it was just a normal, plain, coal black headstone, but the grave had many bouquets neatly arranged on top of the soil, it was sheltered by an great old oak tree shedding its autumn leaves just in time for the new season, and along with it, it came with the most fantastic view that you could wish for. Looking out over to the horizon, you would be able to see the beautiful mix of ruby-red's, orange and gold's in the sky as the sun began to fall in the distance, pine three-seated benched with small bundles of different assorted coloured flowers beside them, and an red roofed oval wooden bandstand not too far away – 35 yards away by my guessing. It was ... breathtakingly stunning. I suspect that Harriet picked this prime spot out, I have only ever met her personally once, but you can tell by the way she holds herself and the way she organises her bag calls out to me that she was a perfectionist. And that she only ever wanted the best for her younger brother.

The scene around me is distracting from what I originally came to do. I have to say it. I cough awkwardly to kick myself back to real world and looked down at his headstone. Written in bold, gold lettering against the coal, black marble it said;

_Dr. John H. Watson_

_Beloved son and brother_

_A true friend_

_And a faithful comrade_

Each word hits me like a ton of bricks landing on my chest. He was somebody's son, somebody's brother, a fellow comrade in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, my friend. He's gone, and he's never coming back.

"I'm so sorry, John." I mutter, averting my eyes away and holding back sobs with all of my strength. "I should've never – I should've –" I take a deep breath and roll my head up to the rich ruby-red sky. "What I mean is that ... I shouldn't have left, I shouldn't have made you believe that I was dead. Or I should've come back sooner, or told you what the plan was at the beginning so you wouldn't have felt like this. This is my fault, and I am honestly, deeply, and truly sorry." I clench my fist and screw my eyes shut. "You were always the better man out of the two of us; you were kind, considerate, loving, caring, loyal, and a little overprotective," I let out a low, sad chuckle, knowing that he would've done the same if he was here – or growl at me and get all defensive. "You knew what people were like with their emotions, you were able to connect to the victims' families, their partners, their flatmates and care for them, _way _better from when I tried to. You understood it a lot better than I did." A thought entered my head and it just has to be said. "However did you put up with me? People ... despised me. I insulted your intellect on a daily basis, I'm pretty sure I messed up of your relationships then I would care to admit, and I ran off from you ... more than enough time. I didn't deserve you, I took advantage of you." Now the tears started to fall. "I should be the one in that coffin, not you. People need you here, John, _I _need you. Desperately."

More tears begin to roll down my cheek, my hand absent-mindedly combs through my mop of unruly, heavy, raven curls. My knees give way and I tumble to the sodden ground and my forehead gentle rests against the gravestone. My cries start off silently but as time dragged on the darkness started to consume the world around me and the cemetery lights switched on, they started to get louder and more strangled. I can only just see his name through my clouded eyes, my shaking fingers trace over his John's name (like that's going to magically bring him back!) "I'm sorry, John. I am so, so, so sorry."

I could say as many apologises as I wanted, for as long as I wanted, as desperately as I wanted, and I still wouldn't bring him back nor could I ever deserve him.

I was too late to save him, now I pay the price.

**A.N. Thank you for reading, I'm thinking of writing another chapter to this, but I'm not 100% sure. Let me know if you think I should.**

**Any grammar, punctuation, continuity mistakes let me know. And constructive criticism is welcome. **


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